


Lethe

by Naddy



Series: Crooked [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Typical Violence, Head Injury, Hunting & Gathering, Hurt/Comfort, Kraglin POV, M/M, Protectiveness, Stranded in the Woods, Teen Peter, Temporary Amnesia, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naddy/pseuds/Naddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yondu pushes Kraglin off a cliff and things only get worse from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa. This isn't another chapter of Contortion and you have my apologies for that. One of those should be coming shortly though! But this story and midterms kinda made it hard to sit down and worldbuild, so I opted to finish this oneshot first. Enjoy.

It’s not that Kraglin thinks Yondu has bad plans. It’s just, sometimes, he tends to do what he wants or just do whatever he can think of first, and that might not always be the smoothest course to take. Yondu’s gotten better at making complex plans over time of course, but then again, it’s easy to improve when previously your brightest ideas were just “march in there and take what we want and damn the rest of the details because we’re Ravagers.”

And now, Kraglin isn’t saying he’s a big intelligent plan maker. Far from it. It’s just that sometimes, he wishes Yondu would pay attention to some of the “minor” details, like the rival smugglers who are currently dropping all manner of EMPs and firebombs on the planet’s surface behind them. Infiltrating a smuggler’s den on a jungle-type planet to steal their cargo seems like a nice way to get money at first, until aforementioned smugglers show up when you’ve moved half the crates into your own M-Ship’s hold and you can’t get to the cockpit before they’ve gone and nuked all the electrical systems on that half of the planet.

And Kraglin really really hates this jungle. Sure, it’s no big deal for Yondu to run and leap and play with the forest critters. He can go ahead and feel them out, but there are regular folk like Kraglin who are not accustomed to running through the rain forest for their lives and do not have a psionic bond with nature. They have to trip over each treacherous step and hope there’s not some poisonous thing down there ready to bite them. The underbrush that Yondu seems to just melt through is a constant tripping hazard for Kraglin, slowing him down, and don’t get him started on the tree roots. He can practically feel the napalm from the firebombs burning up the hairs on his neck already.

Kraglin doesn’t know how they’re going to outrun the three ships chasing them, and he gets his answer a moment later - they’re not. He skids to a stop next to a panting Yondu and barely keeps himself from going over the edge of the apparent cliff. Well, mostly cliff. Maybe a crag? It’s not a sheer drop, there’s some extreme sloping with some scraggly bushes in the dirt and rock, something you could roll a rock down, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to run down it. Not a chance. Not without breaking both of his ankles. Probably couldn’t even walk down it without twisting something even if he had all the time in the universe .

He looks up and meets Yondu’s eyes and sees the same thoughts rattling around the captain’s brain. Still, there’s not much time for thinking and works because an explosion hits one of the mammoth trees next to them and suddenly there’s rocks and wood crashing down around them, and Kraglin feels Yondu’s hands on his chest and hears his voice roaring in his ears.

“Hurry up and go already!”

 **  
** And with that, Kraglin is unceremoniously pushed by Yondu over the cliff’s edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go on a new adventure.
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> What do you think the worst thing is that Yondu's ever done to Kraglin?
> 
> Leave your responses and any other thoughts in the comments below!


	2. Chapter 2

Kraglin’s brain is still full of the impression of tumbling and rocks and pain when he finally wakes up, lying on his back and feeling numb softness surrounding him beyond the aura of pain he seems to be contained in. He doesn’t bother stifling a groan because he might just be dying anyways, and there’s no use dying in silence. Opening his eyes takes a few tries. The first few times he can get his eyelids apart he can’t make anything out, just warm blurs. When he finally gets them to stay open, he can see smooth rock, illuminated by a warm, orange glow that must be a fire.

Ignoring the bolt of pain that runs down his neck and spine, he rolls his head over to look towards the direction the light is coming from, blinking a few more times. He’s in some sort of natural stone cave or whatever. There’s dripstone on the walls, the floor is uneven, and the opening to the outside looks like someone gouged a giant chisel into stone.

Next, he checks out the impromptu bed he’s wrapped in. From the feel of it, his jacket has been rolled into a bundle that currently serves as his pillow. On top, he’s covered with layers of scaly and furry hides that still smell fresh, although they appear to have had all the flesh scraped off properly. The rest of his clothes are nowhere to be found and Kraglin is very naked underneath the hides covering him, save for the damaged computer on his wrist.

Kraglin wiggles his fingers and toes, making sure they’re all there and that he hasn’t paralyzed anything. Everything works fine. His next goal is to try and get moving. He hasn’t seen Yondu yet, but at this point in his life, he’s learned to stick around after waking up in a strange bed. Kraglin sits up and swings his legs over-

Or at least, he tries to, but instead almost vomits at the wave of pain that washes through him, and ends up giving one pitiful jerk before his limbs disobey. Black and red dots swim and shimmer in his eyes, threatening to push him back down into unconsciousness. The next noise that crawls up Kraglin’s throat is a lot louder and much more high pitched.

Which apparently makes it more noticeable. Through the haze of pain, he sees a figure drop down in front of the opening and slide in. When it gets closer to the fire, Kraglin feels something in him unwind just a little, because he can see blue skin and red metal, even if he can’t focus on much else. Yondu made it too.

“Good plan, boss,” he croaks, voice cracking through the pain.

Yondu throws the lumpy thing he’s carrying into the corner and scoots closer to Kraglin, clicking his tongue and cooing. He’s dressed in the remains of what he was wearing before, although the signature red coat is gone. Some of the exposed patches of blue skin have been painted with mud, maybe for camouflage.

The lack of response to his wisecrack is the first thing that tips Kraglin off. Something’s wrong. As Yondu sits on his heels next to him, and his face comes into view, Kraglin can see the large red-purple bump and gash on the side of his head and see the dried crust of blood where it trickled out of Yondu’s ear. Well. Shit. Fucking. Shit.

The clucking and cooing doesn’t stop. Kraglin can’t tell if it's supposed to be soothing sympathetic nonsense noises, or if that’s how Yondu’s trying to communicate. It’s possible the last explosion was an EMP and killed their translators. However, even if that were the case, Kraglin would expect Yondu to switch to standard Xandarian or hell, even Kree. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses a dirty hand on Kraglin’s forehead and keeps it there for a minute before petting the disheveled mohawk for a minute. With the other hand he peels the hides back and looks over all the gashes, bumps, and bruises peppering Kraglin’s pale body. Yondu stops touching Kraglin for a moment to rest both of his hands on his right leg and apply just the slightest amount of pressure, but enough that Kraglin yowls. Yondu frowns at the appendage and scoots back, going back to the lump he tossed in the corner. Kraglin watches him fish out some more hides and straight lengths of wood then slink back to the bed. He isn’t fully prepared when the pieces of wood are jammed against his leg and whites out for a minute.

When Kraglin comes back to full and complete consciousness, his leg is throbbing and he has more than one thought about cutting it off, even if that means bleeding to death in this godforsaken cave on this godforsaken planet. It’s deep, bone deep, slow and painful. He lifts his head up to look at it and finds his leg dressed with a makeshift splint, wood, hide and resin constructed to hold his leg in place.

Yondu rises from where he was crouched by the fire, and holds another stick up. This one has squishy lumps skewered along its length, and he brings it to Kraglin, peeling the lumps off, which Kraglin assumes are some sort of native meat. Yondu holds the meat in front of Kraglin’s mouth and watches him, face set in a serious set of lines and wrinkles.

“Uh. Captain. Is that safe? I mean, we didn’t do that detailed of scan. Meat might be poisonous or have parasites.” Kraglin does not take the offered morsel. Yondu frowns a bit more.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it or anything bu-” Before he can finish the word, Yondu pushes the meat into Kraglin’s mouth and puts a hand over his lips so he can’t spit it back up. Kraglin thinks those are pretty clear instructions, so he chews, telling himself he doesn’t enjoy the fresh, gamey flavor of the meat because it might be poisonous, and swallows. When Yondu offers the next piece, he takes it, not even bothering to point out to his captain his hands work just fine. Kraglin doesn’t think Yondu is all there right now to listen to his protests anyways.

They finish the entire spit of meat that way, with Yondu pushing meat into Kraglin’s mouth and watching closely until he chews and swallows each piece. Every so often, Yondu holds one of their dented, dinged canteens against his mouth and forces him to drink water. When they’re done with that, Kraglin gets to enjoy some kind of berry that’s been mashed up into a paste that Yondu scoops out with his fingers.  When he’s eaten everything that Yondu apparently has to offer him, he even finds himself feeling a bit sleepy. Makes sense. The light coming in the opening of their makeshift shelter is dimming, fading. Night will come soon.

It should probably be humiliating for Kraglin to be treated like a nipper this way. It’s so uncharacteristic of Yondu to be acting like this. Yondu is not some mothering, caring provider for injured first mates, even if he is fucking them occasionally. The last eight times he’s been injured, he’s gone straight to the medbay and stayed there until he was healed enough to go back to his duties, no visits or messages from Yondu.

It’s all very jarring, to say the least.

With Kraglin’s meal finished, Yondu returns to the fire and cooks another spit for himself, wolfing the meat down while it’s still popping and crackling. He lets the fire sink into the coals and dim, grabbing another skin and wrapping it around himself before propping his back up against the wall next to Kraglin’s head and facing the opening. One hand rests on the nock of his yaka arrow, the other on Kraglin’s scalp. The last of the light leaves the opening, and Kraglin finds himself slipping, not unwelcomingly, into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't like campfire cooking?
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> Do you think there is anything Yondu and Kraglin won't eat? Vegetables maybe?
> 
> Leave your thoughts below. Reading comments, even the small ones, makes me very happy.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he wakes up, Kraglin feels just as sore, and once again, Yondu is gone. That's fine for now, but Kraglin is still worried. Something ain't right with the captain, and he suspects it's the head injury that has him acting funny and primal. Shit like that can get serious and irreparable fast. He needs to do something to get them both out of there and he needs to do it now.

 

Right now, his wrist piece is useless. The screen is shattered beyond any recognized shape and the case has been warped and twisted, probably from a Kraglin shaped hunk of meat rolling and twisting on it down a cliff or something similar.

 

If he had the right tools, he could open it up and twist wires and circuits around and have a distress beacon flashing on a concealed channel to the Eclector in ten minutes However, he doesn't have any tools, no way to see what channel he could tune to, and on closer inspection, he realizes the battery has a slow but steady plasma leak. In two days, he won't have any charge left to even try a distress beacon.

 

He needs to fix it, and fix it sooner rather than later. He and Captain both got shit to do that doesn’t include sitting around camping in the woods with major injuries going untreated. Kraglin starts on the battery first, since that’s the most time sensitive piece. There’s no welding or patching tools, so he takes a page out of primal-Yondu’s book and scrapes bits of resin off of his makeshift cast, heating and warming it in his hand before it’s gummy enough for him to press around the leaking seal on the battery. It sticks to his thumb as he pushes it as tight as he can against the leak, but he slowly peels his thumb off. The resin probably won’t hold very long against the corrosive plasma, but it’s the only thing he has for now.

 

The lack of tools is certainly going to be a problem. He needs tools to get into his wristpiece and to move critical bits around. Kraglin might have skinny fingers and some decent motor control, but even he can’t fish tiny wires and bits around without some kind of kit. His eyes search the interior of the cave, seeking out anything of use. There’s plenty of rocks on hand, but without shaping and shearing, they’re not going to be of any use to him. He keeps looking around, and sees a bloody, gristly mess of bones in the corner. That’ll do.

 

The big problem is that he has to get over there, and with his body this banged up, Kraglin isn’t looking forward to the prospect. Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins shifting his body, sliding his legs to the side and using his arms to push himself up.

 

It hurts. It hurts a helluva lot. Every nerve and muscle in his body is protesting the move loudly, with as much pain as possible. He can feel the throb in his broken leg increasing, can feel every joint swelling and stiffening. Kraglin somehow gets himself pushed into a sitting position, and trembles, sweating what feels like buckets from every pore. He takes a few minutes to catch his breath, stomach flipping and doing knots.

 

There’s no way he’s going to be able to walk over there on his leg. And as much as Kraglin would like to stand tall like a fierce Hraxian ought to, he knows he’s going to have to settle for crawling, so he ungracefully and awkwardly slides himself off of his makeshift bed and onto the floor, mindful of his leg. It hurts, but no more than it did sitting up, and he uses his good leg and arms to pull himself across the floor and to the pile of bones.

 

He digs around, casting small pieces of flesh and the larger bones aside until he finds some thin, narrow bones. Kraglin tumbles them in his fingers and snaps one in half. The bone, apparently hollow, splinters and breaks, providing him with a narrow tipped, sharp tool. It’ll do.

 

With a deep breath and terse grunt, Kraglin rolls onto his stomach, laying his new tools and wristpiece on the ground in front of him. It’s the best position to keep pressure off of his leg and to keep his hands open for the work in front of him. With the broader end of the snapped bone, he pries off the rest of the cover from the back of his wristpiece, gaining access to the precious circuitry.

 

Before he goes any further, Kraglin takes a moment to breathe, pulling air in and out of his sore lungs, willing the pain away, and trying to stop the trembling in his hands. If this is going to work, he needs the steady fingers, needs to be able to do this and not fuck it up. For both of their sakes.

 

With a proper set of tools, this would be a ten minute re-arrangement of circuits, wires, and powering cables. Right now, with two pieces of snapped bone and no diagnostics to assist him, Kraglin knows he’s looking at at least three or four hours of carefully removing each wire, shifting it to a new position, plus removing some pieces entirely, to say nothing of what he’ll have to do with the rest of the circuits. It’s going to be a long while.

 

Kraglin pays no attention to the light as it slowly creeps from one end of the cave to the other, growing more red as the sun outside sinks slowly towards dusk. He’s only aware of his hands, the half-destroyed technology in front of him, and the memory of the dried blood crusted around Yondu’s ear, spurring him to work fast in short little bursts, before he reigns it in and returns to working slowly but surely. Destroying the wrist-piece because he gets too worked up isn’t going to help anyone.

 

Eventually, there isn’t any light left and Kraglin has to stop for the night. The fire’s long burned down to just embers from where it had been stoked this morning, but there’s no wood for him to build it back up again.

 

Kraglin holds the wristpiece closer to his chest and scoots closer to his bed, unable to pull himself up for now. There’s enough moonlight for him to see out beyond the cave’s opening, but he doesn’t see much beside the silhouette of trees. Yondu hasn’t returned once the entire day and Kraglin prays it's because he’s hunting something normal and not-poisonous, and not because the bleeding on his brain finally overcame him.

 

He really hopes that isn’t what happened.

 

Lots of new Ravagers expect life of the Eclector to be a cutthroat affair, abandoning the slow and weak, fighting for every scrap of food and respect, with the strong or devious taking what they want. They expect the first mate to be strong, but with an eye on the captain’s chair. Maybe that’s what it was like before Yondu, but it sure ain’t that way now. That ain’t the way to earn real loyalty. Yondu likes his men loyal to him and the ship, not their paychecks and ambitions.

 

If Yondu is dead (and Kraglin can barely stomach the thought) that means he’s the next in line for the threadbare, creaky chair that takes prominence on the bridge. He can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine running that whole ship, can’t imagine everyone looking to him to make the most brilliant decisions, to take them out of danger and into glory. That ain’t him. He can’t begin to picture what the captain’s stripes would look like on his sleeve, or having the captain’s cabin all to himself. For how many years now, he’s been the first mate, and this is the first time Kraglin’s thought about what position that puts him the chain of command.

 

Just trying to think about it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, it’s so WRONG.

 

Yondu’s the one who picks and assigns jobs that bring them money and respectable infamy. Yondu’s the one who keeps a loose set of morals and honor among the men while they rob merchants blind. Yondu’s the one who earns the loyalty of his crew and can’t help but be just as loyal in return. Yondu’s strong and smart enough that you can’t help but respect him.

 

Kraglin’s got none of that.

 

He doesn’t have to brood over the potential demise of his captain much longer. There’s the noise of cracking twigs and swaying brush and moments later, Yondu is squeezing through the opening of their little cave. something deer-like, but with too many legs and eyes, draped across his broad blue shoulders. The hunter drops it on the ground next to the fire’s ashy remains and makes a soft noise, eyes fixing on where Kraglin is propped against his makeshift bed instead of on top of it.

 

Without delay, Yondu’s bending over, gently picking Kraglin back up and slotting him back into place on the hides and furs. He runs his hands up and down Kraglin’s torso and limbs, checking for further damage.

 

“I’m fine. Really. I just needed some better light, that’s all, thought I could stoke it myself,” Kraglin tries to reassure him, but Yondu still doesn’t hear the words that come out of his mouth. Once he’s satisfied that Kraglin hasn’t managed to damage himself any further, he turns back to the fire and begins building it back up again, stepping outside once to gather brush. The ashes are hot enough that it doesn’t take too much work before a hot, glowing fire is licking up the wood. With that task complete, Yondu checks Kraglin over once more, then begins skinning and cleaning the deer thing.

 

Kraglin dozes off while watching the rhythmic cutting and slashing. He wakes to Yondu tapping his cheek softly but intently, another skewer of meat in his hand. While he slept, the deer thing has been changed from an animal to a neat pile of meat and bones.

 

Yondu mimes opening his mouth and Kraglin follows his lead, letting him repeat the process from last night. He gets an entire skewer of meat, followed by half a canteen of water, hand fed to him by the Ravager Captain, who scuttles back over to the fire and begins digging around in a pouch. Yondu scoops a handful of something out and comes back to Kraglin’s side, picking up something shiny and dark. Kraglin can’t quite make out what it is in the dark.

 

Yondu leans forward and presses it against his mouth, and Kraglin jerks his head back, nearly concussing himself against the rock wall behind him when he feels a  few segmented, hard legs press against his lip. Bugs. Fucking bugs. Captain’s trying to feed him bugs.

 

And okay, Kraglin knows beggars can’t be choosers. Food was sometimes scarce enough on Hrax that he’s eaten a few roasted giant grubs. But this? This is unknown and still alive, waving its legs around in a threat display, and Kraglin refuses to eat anything that isn’t dead yet. Especially when he doesn’t know how it’s going to react with his body’s chemistry.

 

“Sorry captain. No can do.” He presses his lips tightly together, jaw clenching, and shakes his head from side to side, hoping Yondu gets the point. His ungelled hair bounces softly while he does. After trying to press the bug into his mouth a few more times, Yondu gets the point and backs off. Kraglin smiles weakly at him, and Yondu huffs, settling himself down by the fire and biting the insect thing in half. It crunches and squishes while he chews, remaining legs twitching, and Kraglin looks up at the ceiling.

 

“That’s gross.” Yondu, naturally, doesn’t respond, and Kraglin sighs, wishing they were back on the Eclector. His eyes drift shut while he tries hard to pay attention to anything but the sound of Yondu chewing his way through a colony of insects. Vaguely, he’s aware of movement when Yondu takes his place leaning against the wall next to him, one hand gently dropped on his scraggly, greasy hair.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Kraglin doesn't like it when his food is still wigglin'. Who knew.
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> Since apparently Kraglin is in the habit of ignoring injuries and illness, what do you think the worst wound/sickness is that he tried to walk off?


	4. Chapter 4

Second (or is this third) verse same as the first. Kraglin stirs the next morning and finds that Yondu is gone (assumingly) hunting. Something is wrong though, and it takes Kraglin a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, feeling warm and wrung out, to realize what it is. He has a fever, and is pretty sure it has less to do with the flu and more to do with something being broken and infected. Because, you know, things weren’t shitty enough already. And his immune system ain't that weak. If he's got an infection, it means something has gone wrong.

 

He scrapes and gropes his fingers around on the floor next to his bed until he finds the canteen. It’s so dented and scratched from its original shape that he can’t tell if it was Yondu’s or his own. Kraglin takes a few greedy mouthfuls, drops running down from his mouth, but keeps himself from drinking more. He doesn't know when Yondu will be back and he doesn't want to run out of water immediately. It's safer to ration it.

 

His next order of business is to finish repurposing his wrist piece into a distress beacon. They're on day two or three of this little camping trip now, and Kraglin can only imagine how antsy everyone is getting in the Eclector. If the fever gets any stronger he'll lose the ability to make these fine changes, and if he can't finish it soon, there's no telling when, or even if, they'll get rescued.

 

For the next few hours, Kraglin works like a man possessed. He ignores the plasma that burns layers of skin off his fingers and the minor shocks he gives himself. His entirely world has become contingent upon him finishing this one, singular piece of tech. After this, he can rest. After this, he can worry a little less with a plan in place.

 

It takes him much longer than he’d like to re-route the remaining power. The fever is slowly burning the steadiness from his hands and he is swept by waves of dizziness with increasing frequency. Kraglin counts his way through a dizzy spell, shutting his eyes against the spinning ceiling and undulating walls. He focuses on breathing.

 

When it's passed, he carefully lifts the last wayward power link and squishes it against the battery. The leaking plasma bubbles and squelches up around his thumb, burning the skin, but he doesn’t let up until he’s sure the power coupling is firmly stuck in place. Kraglin wipes his thumb off on one of the furs before further damage can be done. He holds the wristpiece up to his ear and holds his breath.

 

A faint, tinny buzzing noise radiates out from the device. Kraglin wants to shout, dance, laugh, and cry all at once, but he settles for grinning since he isn’t sure if his body can handle anything else. The signal is there. It’s probably weak, but it’s there. If he can get it out of the cave, they’ll have an even better chance of being found. The only problem now is getting it somewhere where the signal can be picked up. As much as he’d like to, the broken leg and fever mean he is stuck in this little bed. Kraglin will just have to wait.

 

He spends the rest of the morning shivering under his furs His immune system is strong, and Kraglin knows from experience that he can usually outlast an infection and fever with pretty decent results, but that doesn’t mean he’s particularly fond of doing so. It still feels shitty. He’s got a bad habit of putting his body through whatever and assume his Hrax-toughened physiology can take it. Maybe he needs to stop doing that.

 

Rationing his water, he waits for Yondu to return. When the sunlight and shadows move a handspan across the floor, he allows himself a sip. In between these respites, he closes his eyes and dozes, the comforting, buzzing wristpiece held against his chest.

 

Some of his fever nap dreams are better than others. For a moment, he’s in a cool bath, skin to skin with his captain and lover, and everything feels right. Not peaceful, because Ravagers don’t really do peaceful and all those fluffy feelings, but content. Pleased. Not particularly worried. That’s the best way to describe it.

 

Minutes later, he’s back on Hrax, breathing toxic fumes and feeling his chest caving inwards under unfathomable pressure as he pulls himself through filth. He crawls to the surface on the bodies of others who have been stuck down there too, and stares at the bright, blinding blue sky. The blue fades to black and stars appear. He becomes the sky.

 

He’s standing on the Eclector, that starry sky wrapped around him like a big, heavy blanket. There’s a battle, they win, and they’re raiding a small badoon vessel. One grizzled, lopsided badoon stares at Yondu, who’s inspecting some loot and weapons, and clearly recognizes something about the captain. The green bastard opens his mouth to say something and finds Kraglin’s knife buried and twisting in the flesh between two ribs. Kraglin won’t let anyone put Yondu through that loss again. It’s probably stupid of him and rash and against some sort of code or rule, but it’s what feels right at the time. Yondu is pretend-show-angry at him for shanking a prisoner, but he ultimately trusts Kraglin was acting on a damn good reason and doesn’t send him to the brig.

 

Slowly, the shapes and colors ebb out of the dreamscape and he exists in quiet, cool nothingness before slowly opening his eyes to reality. Sunset is already come and ending, giving way to blue-purple dusk, but the fire has been stoked. He blinks and fumbles for the canteen by his side, mouth dry and full of cotton. Blue hands appear in his field of vision and unscrew the cap he’s fumbling with and help tip the contents back into his mouth. Kraglin’s hazy eyes take in Yondu, still painted over in mud and gods know what.

 

Kraglin can see the way Yondu frowns at the hot and clammy connection between their skins. Yondu, who was apparently looking, drops a skewer of meat on the ground in favor of running his hands over all the planes of Kraglin’s skin, searching for some new injury, something to explain the fever. Kraglin tries to reassure him, grinning and taking Yondu’s hand in his own, summoning up a voice that he hopes is filled with reassurance and health.

 

“Hey. It’s fine. You and I both know I’ll outlast any dumb old fever. I do have a very, very, extremely important job for ya though.”

 

He digs into his little fur nest and pulls out the wristpiece before he drags his hand over the floor next to his bed, groping at the ground until he finds a bit of burnt wood. With one hand, Kraglin pushes himself up a ways in the bed, and brushes the dust off the wall next to him. This might be his best shot at communicating with Yondu. With his tongue peeking out, brow furrowed in concentration, Kraglin begins to draw.

 

He’s no artist (and lots of Hraxian upper-crusters would like to remind him of that) but he’s trying to communicate an idea, not create a masterpiece, and he just hope it gets through to Yondu’s lizard brain. With uneven strokes and crooked lines, Kraglin illustrates their little cave, the wristpiece, and what he needs Yondu to do. He draws Yondu’s stick figure with an implant on his head and his own with a spiky, scribbly mohawk.

 

“Alright, Cap’n. Kraglin’s gotta teach stuff today. Here’s us in our cozy cave here. This one’s you.” He taps the little charcoal drawing Yondu figure, then taps the real flesh-and-bone Yondu’s chest. “You. That’s you. Yondu.” He taps the handsome mohawked figure. “This is me. Kraglin.” He taps his own chest a few times for emphasis.

 

“Kraglin,” Yondu parrots, nodding.

 

“Good! Good.” At least something was getting through. “So this is us. In our cave.” He gestures to the space around them. “This bit is the wristpiece. I’m going to give it to you. You’re going to carry it out of here and up and up until you find a great big tree. I know you can climb trees practically blindfolded, so this shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

He points at a crude sketch of a tree, at doodle Yondu, then real Yondu, and the wristpiece.

 

“Tie the wristpiece or secure it however you can towards the top of the tree. It needs to be as high as you can get it, and it needs to stay there and not fall down. Then help will come. We’ll get out of here, and we’ll both get the attention we need, a’ight?”

 

Yondu keeps focused on the plan and meets Kraglin’s eyes, still nodding slowly. Normally, this is the type of unspoken plan that Kraglin communicates to Yondu with sustained eye contact and a suggestive lift of his eyebrows, but in this state, he can’t be sure that Yondu understands. Apparently Yondu understands something, however, because before Kraglin can react, he’s snatching up the wristpiece and bolting out of their cave and into the dusky wilds.

 

Yondu doesn’t return quickly, and Kraglin barely keeps himself from worrying. He reminds himself nonstop for hours that Yondu’s got his freaky forest-sense, a telepathic arrow, and is too mean to die. It doesn’t stop his heart from climbing into his throat every time he hears a noise outside their cave that could be a returning Yondu.

 

While he waits, he eats the skewer of meat Yondu left by his bed. It’s cold now, and chewy too, and he’s not even particularly hungry, but he knows the value of calories when he’s this sick.

 

Eventually, the stress of the day and the fever’s toll catch up with his brain, and Kraglin finds himself drifting off, unable to keep his worries straight anymore. The furs do their job well, and he’s quite nice and toasty, safely rolled up in his soft little bed. He sinks into a soft, downy sleep, heavy and free from dreams.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fever dreams, batman! 
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> Just how crude of an artist do you think Kraglin is?
> 
> Leave your thoughts below! Any of them! I love reading comments. It gets me through the boring weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

 

When he opens his eyes, Kraglin thinks he might still be in a fever dream. The fire is not quite as bright, but not dead yet. The fire had died some, but there's still more than enough light for him to make out a hulking black shape bent over next to the flames.

 

“Yondu?” he asks, rather stupidly.

 

The shape reacts instantly, startled by his voice, uncoiling and rearing like an animal. Kraglin’s able to make out double rows of sharp teeth and way too many pairs of claw tipped limbs wrapped in disgusting, matted black fur. It rears and rears and rears and seems impossibly long, like someone grabbed it at each end and kept pulling and adding legs until it could circle the planet.

 

The monster undulates, readying to strike, pulling back and tensing. Everything seems to happen in slow motion while Kraglin realizes he has no weapons and nowhere to run. Every choice, every mistake he’s made suddenly slams into him with the force of a plasma cannon, and he keeps his eyes open and waits for the teeth and claws to rip into his body and end his life in a whirlwind of pain and gore.

 

Death never comes because at that moment a blue streak rushes in from the opening and slams into the back of the beast. There’s loud whistling and even louder, inhuman screeching. Bright green blood his the floor and the walls and Kraglin. The monster thrashes from side to side, Yondu firmly hooked into its back. He keeps stabbing with his boot knife and whistling his arrow into belly.

 

In a last ditch effort, the monster rolls into the fire, throwing Yondu against the coals and flames. Kraglin hears him shout, and just like that, finds his body unfrozen from his impending doom, and struggles to sit up and find a rock or something he can throw or anything to do really. Contributing anything to the fight is better than laying there like a dying dog, but Yondu is already up on his feet again while the beast is still rolling and trying to right itself. Yondu dives in while the monster is still on its back and rips his knife across the veins and tendons under its jaw.

 

The monster’s last scream is cut off suddenly by gurling as its tail thrashes and it twists through death throws. The pool of green blood oozes across the floor slowly, invading inch. Yondu stands over the carcass, covered in green blood and breathing hard, his arrow in one hand and his boot knife in the other. Kraglin has never seen him look so feral.

 

Yondu kicks dirt over the fire to kill it, to hide them, Kraglin realizes, and crouches on the ground next to the Hraxian, red eyes fixed on the opening, waiting for another attack. Kraglin tries to stay up with him, to keep watch over the darkness, as long as he can, but his fever weakened body slides into unconsciousness quickly .

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That went better than it could have.
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> Who makes worse decisions, Kraglin or Yondu (or Peter)?
> 
> As always, leave your thoughts below and I will be overjoyed to read them. ;3;


	6. Chapter 6

 

Apparently, a burned and blistered back isn’t going to stop Yondu from doing whatever it is he does all day. Kraglin stirs when he does, blinking into the watery, pale pre-dawn light. He tries to speak up and say or do something to convince Yondu that the burns are a little much for him to go running around the forest, but Yondu just shushes and clicks and coos to him, stroking the stripe of hair on his head and rubbing his scalp. Kraglin gives up trying and Yondu gives his back a few more reassuring pats, then he rises, arrow in hand, and slinks out of the cave.

 

He watches the light strengthen for a while longer, worry stuck in his throat, before he drifts off into slumber again. His dreams are much more settled today. It’s still not quite right, colors are too bright and memories seem to bleed into one another, but Kraglin doesn’t find his soul being meshed into the fabric of the universe this time. They’re also much fonder memories with the kid, teaching him how to duck and weave and steal.

 

Kraglin finds himself reliving the lesson pickpocket lesson, showing Peter to use his fingers like tweezers, not crab claws. Kraglin has the kid, probably only twelve now, close his eyes. He slides his own well-trained fingers into one of the kid’s many pants pockets and fishes out a slim knife, frowning. Kid should know better than to keep knives in pockets. He drops it into his coat pocket and steps back.

 

“Alright kid, know what I took?”

 

They do this over and over again while Kraglin teaches Peter to identify the motions before he’s even allowed to try and get something out of Kraglin’s jacket. It’s months upon months of practice after that, teaching him the gait, the confidence, the covers, and the movements, before the kid isn’t half so bad himself. Once he’s pretty smooth on the pickpocketing, he encourages the kid to try it on the slower, more dimwitted members of the crew. Some of them have been getting a little complacent, and if they aren’t guarding their pockets against a twelve-year-old Terran, they deserve to get some of their things taken.

 

Which is of course why the kid thought it would be a good idea to try his newfound skill on the ship’s captain, who is of course, immediately alerted to the feel of a clumsy, greenhorn pickpocket going around in his pockets. The clang can be heard throughout the ship as Yondu slams the kid against the wall, growling.

 

“Now, who went and told you to do that?”

 

“Kraglin?” The kid looks down the hallway, eyes locking on to the exhausted Hraxian, who really just wants to go to bed at this point. Yondu’s head snaps, red eyes fixing on their target.

 

“Kraglin?” Peter says again, still looking at him, and Kraglin stops. This isn’t quite right anymore.

 

“Kraglin?” And suddenly, eyes open, there he is, not the troublemaking twelve-year-old who got him kicked out of bed for two weeks, even after all the explanations, but the seventeen-year-old-almost-man Peter. He blinks hard again and rubs the grit and sleep out of his eyes, pressing calloused palms against his thin eyelids. When he removes them, Peter is still there, squeezing into the cave, stepping around the fire and pool of green blood. Kraglin feels a little giddy and giggly. Help has come.

 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, kid. Damn, I thought for sure you’d be leaving’ us behind at this point.” Kraglin grins.

 

“A few of the crew wanted to, but Horuz didn’t let them consider it more than a nanosecond. He said if the ship left while Yondu was still alive and stuck down here, he’d track us all down and murder us with a rock. Surprisingly, everybody was willing to come look for Yondu after Horuz mentioned his revenge.”

 

“Sometimes, it shocks me how smart Horux can be. Smartest, thickest skulled, stubbornest, best Xandarian a man could ask for. He might only have two brain cells in there, but boy, when he uses them it ends good.”

 

“Yeah. So everyone’s been down here kicking bushes apart looking for you two.” Peter helps Kraglin peel the skins and furs back, taking stock of the injuries. He gets that look on his face that Yondu sometimes gets, when he’s making a plan and trying to figure something out.

 

“Find anything good?” Kraglin asks, breaking his focus.

 

“We got your M-Ship and got the drop on those smugglers. Not such an easy little knock-off, was it? I hate EMP spammers. We managed to beat them pretty fast though. And I think someone found Yondu’s coat. Other than that, nobody’s found much. I managed to wander close enough to pick up that distress signal, but I think that’s the only stroke of good luck we’ve had.” The kid pauses and glances around furtively, looking for shapes in the darkness, before continuing, voice quieter than before.

 

“You know I’m not superstitious, but things have been weird. We’ve had trees falling and almost crushing folks. Poisonous creatures dropping on heads. Things going missing or getting broken in broad daylight when no one’s looking. A few people think they’re seeing some kind of monster in the underbrush, but only ever out of the corner of their eyes. I feel like something’s watching us and doesn’t want us to be here.”

 

Kraglin’s stomach drops and he suddenly has an idea of what Yondu does all day. Thank the universe no one’s been killed.

 

“But that’s enough of an update from me,” Peter says, changing the subject abruptly. “You look like you’ve had enough of your own bad luck. And no offense to your abilities, but I’m assuming you didn’t dress this wound yourself. Yondu around here somewhere?”

 

“Kinda. Listen kid, that’s where we got some issues. Yondu’s here, he’s been taking care of me, but he’s not all here right now,” Kraglin starts as Peter helps him sit up, taking Kraglin’s arm and using his strength to support him on the side of his broken leg. Peter takes more than his fair share of Kraglin’s weight, and he feels a little relief with the assistance. They begin to hobble out of the cave and down the hillside, thickly forested like the rest of this goddamn planet, and Kraglin continues.

 

“He got hit in the head or something, so he’s acting funny. Forgot a few things. Bit feral. Like he’s still on Centauri.” Kraglin absolutely does not use the word primitive. Not when it’s been used like a slur towards Yondu, himself, and Peter. Peter’s eyes widen, and he nods.  

 

“So what, we’re gonna have to drag him back kicking and screaming or something? Knock him out?”

 

“Can’t hit him in the head. It’ll only hurt him worse and I don’t want to risk any more brain damage than what he’s collecting’ himself. Use a fast and light sedative to get him to the medbay as soon as possible. Taking care of Yondu is gonna be the ship’s first priority, got it, kid? Captain’s incapacitated so first mate’s word is law.”

 

“Yessir. How are we gonna find him?”

 

“He’ll go back to the cave to sleep.” And probably to check on me, Kraglin thinks, but doesn’t say, because it ain’t really relevant to the conversation. “Which also reminds me, I think your bad luck is actually-”

 

But he doesn’t get to finish his thought because something big, heavy, and whistling drops out of the trees behind them. The yaka arrow shoots past them in a streak of red and gold, slicing through the muscle of Peter’s arm.

 

To the kid’s credit, he doesn’t lose his grip on Kraglin. Kraglin knows he’s been working on beating his flinch and recoil reflexing and upping his pain tolerance and focus for hard jobs. Peter shouts, and his balance wavers, but he holds on tightly and supports Kraglin’s weight.

 

At least, he does until the arrow’s return journey, when it slices through his calf muscle. Then he loses his grip and balance and goes down, also sending Kraglin sprawling into a painful, lumpy tangle of dirt clods, roots, and limbs. There’s a lot of pain and jostling that causes even more pain, sharp and shooting straight from his leg bones to his spine and skull. Kraglin whites out.

 

Apparently, Yondu was more interested in stealing Kraglin back than killing Peter for stealing him, because when Kraglin comes to again, he’s being carried snugly against Yondu’s chest as they race through the trees, Peter’s shouting growing more and more distance. Kraglin’s too tall, too long, and it’s not a perfect position, and before he knows it, he’s passing out again when his leg catches on a branch.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think that belonged to you, did it, Peter?
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> How many stitches will Peter need?  
> OR  
> Will they ever leave this alien jungle/forest or will Yondu keep them there forever?
> 
> Drop a thought below!


	7. Chapter 7

When Kraglin re-emerges from his mini-world of blurry aches and pains, all the movement has stopped. The world around him is quiet and still. He’s tucked in between two tall buttresses of tree roots, pillowy moss and leaves under his body. It’s very alien and unfamiliar.

 

The first part of his life he slept on unyielding metal. The second part has been on lumpy, uneven Ravager mattresses. Never has Kraglin spent so much time surrounded by organic material. And if being around good ol’ green nature is always this problematic, he doesn’t want to do it again any time soon.

 

He uses his hands to try and push himself up a bit further, studying the new space around him, but Yondu is there and uses surprisingly gentle hands to hold him down and keep him laying there. Once again, he gives up under the gentle insistence and watches Yondu instead. He gets some soft, reassuring pets and pats on his face and scalp for his trouble.

 

This has to stop. They need to get back to the Eclector, to safety, and to some decent medical care so that Yondu doesn’t die of a stroke or brain bleed or whatever else can be caused by traumatic head injury. Firmly, Kraglin takes Yondu’s hands in his own.

 

“Listen, Cap’n. I know that in your head right now, you’re doing what you think needs to be done. But you gotta trust me, okay? We need to get back to Peter, and we need to get back to the Eclector. Remember the Eclector? Ship you captain and take on all sorts of crazy feats of robbery and daring?”

 

Yondu frowns and Kraglin takes the moment to push himself into a sitting position, hiding a wince.

 

“You know what I’m talking about. Even if your memories are a bit gone, you know what those things are. You know we oughta go back to them. Way I figure it, we’ve been here something like four or five days, and you know I hate camping and I hate being acting captain, even if I only have to give one order and that’s to get us back to the ship. You are incapacitated, and I, First Mate Kraglin Obfonteri, am giving you an order, Captain Yondu Udonta. We are going to find Peter, and we are getting you some medical help, because I am going to be very very upset if you die.”

 

He’s very proud of his little speech, and he sees a glimmer of recognition in Yondu’s eyes. He swallows around the sticky lump in his throat and watches Yondu closely, waiting for his response, or anything really.

 

It’s slow and very subtle, but Yondu nods, brows pinching together. “Kraglin,” he says, strengthening his nod. “Kraglin,” he repeated, before reaching down, drawing his boot knife. He presses the hilt into Kraglin’s palm and uses his other hand to curl Kraglin’s fingers around it. Kraglin smiles weakly and holds onto the knife.

 

Yondu smiles slightly and leans back, motioning to himself with an open hand. “Yondu.” Then, he leans forward and touches Kraglin’s face, closing his hand and drawing it back to put over his heart, cradling it close. “Kraglin.”

 

It might be a crude gesture, but Yondu does it with such a devoted expression on his face and with such a gentle hand that there isn’t much doubt about what he means. He cares for Kraglin and he wants him safe. Kraglin rubs some dirt out of his eyes.

 

“Yeah, alright you big softie. I got it. Use the knife to fuck up anyone who comes over here while you run off and do whatever. My orders still stand though.”

 

Yondu grunts and makes sure Kraglin is comfortable enough next to the high walls of the tree’s roots, before turning and silently disappearing back into the underbrush. Kraglin is left alone once more, head resting against the bark behind him, staring up into the dense, swaying canopy over their heads.

 

He resolutely does not look down at his body, which has stiffened into a solid knot of pain. There’s still more that enough dizziness and disorientation spinning around his brain to keep him from trying to stand up and now all of his joints throb too. Kraglin feels cold too, but with his body this beat up, he doesn’t even shiver much. Probably a good thing too, or who knows what bit of bone he’d send into an artery.

 

Kraglin can’t help but worry even more now. The captain had barely even acknowledged the burns and blisters still festering on his back. There was no way he wasn’t feeling it, which meant he considered harassing the crew and keeping them from finding them to be more important than his own health. That’s more worrisome than the burns themselves. He wonders how far this Yondu will go to keep rescue from finding them.

 

He keeps the knife at the ready, just in case one of those monsters from last night is poking around and decides it wants some fancy Hraxian for dinner. There’s no way for Kraglin to keep time, so he settles for watching the sun pass overhead and the shadows of the tree’s leaves lengthening on the forest floor. When his mind is on the cusp of sinking into another fever nap he re-focuses on the waking world by counting the throb in his joints.

 

The sun is sinking towards another sunset, purple and pink chasing each other into the sky when Kraglin hears something stomping towards him in the brush. It’s not Yondu - the hunter moves with far more grace and far more silently than whatever this thing is. It gets closer and closer, sending bugs and small animals scurrying for safety.

 

Kraglin feels his heart rate increasing and he shifts the hilt of the knife in his hand, steeling himself for another rabid monster. He holds very still, pressing himself into the shadows between the roots, and waits to strike.

 

Peter comes bumbling out of the underbrush, slapping at the cloud of bugs busily buzzing around his body and craning his neck around to stare at the tree. Kraglin huffs out a very slightly amused breath and slides the knife into the boot on his good leg.

 

“Kid. Right here.” He sticks his hand up and waves a little, catching the Terran’s attention. Peter, grinning like he’s found a particularly fat wallet, comes trotting over and rests on his heels next to Kraglin in his little root nest.

 

“Ha! Found you. Yondu thought he could hide you, but he left enough DNA behind of the both of you for me to jump back to the ship and sync it for a close-range bio scanner. And luckily for the both of us, you left enough blood droplets for me to follow. Like Hansel and Gretel.”

 

“Hansel and Gretel? Actually, you know what,” Kraglin pinches the bridge of his nose, “there’s not really much time for that right now. Yondu ran off again, but I’m sure he’ll come back soon. Did you get the sedatives? Is the crew coming?”

 

“Shit. I knew I forgot something. I got a couple of sedatives from Doc just fine, but I was in a rush to find you instead, so I might’ve glossed over telling the others.”

 

Kraglin resists the urge to pull out his remaining strip of hair and rubs his face instead.

 

“Alright. That might make this a bit trickier, but you still have a wristpiece, so go ahead and call some more of the crew in. We’re gonna need a hand or two to make this work without anyone gettin’ hurt. You did get the right sedatives though, right?”

 

“I remembered what you said about the brain injury so I told Doc. He said these will be fast enough and strong enough to put him out of it long enough to get back to the Eclector, but shouldn’t put him into a coma or anything else.” The kid stops tapping on his wristpiece to go into his pocket and dig around, producing two capped syringes filled with a small amount of blue liquid.

 

Looking proud of his solution, Peter holds the two syringes out to Kraglin for his inspection. Kraglin leans forward to take them out of his hand, but before he can reach them, an all-too-familiar yaka arrow comes whistling into the space between the Hraxian and the Terran, shattering one syringe, sending the other flying, and splitting the skin on Peter’s hand. The arrow continues flying straight and buries itself into the great big tree sheltering Kraglin.

 

Yondu drops from the branches above them, landing with a grunt on the ground behind Peter. He goes low and lashes out with a kick, trying to knock the kid over. The kid is faster than he looks though, and manages to get just out of range before he throws a counter at Yondu while he’s still unbalanced.

 

If Peter’s hand to hand reflexes were any slower, or Yond’s reactions any quicker, the fight would have ended immediately. As it is, the first few blows are an equal exchange, so Kraglin frantically lifts himself up and dives towards the underbrush where he saw the intact syringe fall. He slides onto his stomach, face nearly in the dirt, and thrusts his hands into the underbrush. Gripping and grabbing at foliage and branches, he desperately tries to find something thin and smooth.

 

“Yondu, st-!” He hears Peter’s shout choke off behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look. There’s still twigs snapping and leaves crunching, so there must still be struggles, and Kraglin isn’t going to be really worried until those stop too.

 

One finger brushes against something small and glassy and his whole body seizes forward to grab it. He fumbles the syringe in his haste, his sweaty, torn up, clammy hands struggling to find purchase and just barely manages to keep his grip.

 

Kraglin rolls from his back to his stomach, uncapping the syringe as he goes. He can see now that Peter is on his back, squirming and kicking with Yondu crouched on top of him, pinning him, blue hands on white throat.

 

He needs this to be as safe as he can though. Kraglin needs to make sure that this isn’t what kills Yondu, so he takes the five seconds he needs to make sure, up-ending the syringe, flicking the bubbles up and out, and squirting a tiny bit of bright blue into the air. Now, with the syringe primed and ready, Kraglin acts.

 

Peter’s kicks are getting more frantic and less controlled as Kraglin uses his free hand to push himself up and onto his good leg. He holds the syringe in his hand like a knife, clenching his jaw against the pain as he throws himself forward, weight briefly concentrated on his broken leg.

 

There’s the briefest moment, mid-lunge, when time slows and Kraglin steels his nerves for what’s gonna happen next.

 

He collides with Yondu, shoulders crashing into his midsection, throwing him off balance and slightly more importantly, off of Peter. His left arm wraps tightly around Yondu’s body and his left hand comes slamming down onto Yondu’s thigh, embedding the needle in flesh and pressing the plunger in one single swift movement. It’s all done too quickly for Yondu to try and stop him.

 

Kraglin isn’t stupid. He knows better than to think the drug will instantly knock Yondu out, so he isn’t surprised when he’s bodily removed and thrown onto the ground. Landing hard on his back, Kraglin’s body lights up all over in a single, solid spasm of painful protest. He was expecting that.

 

What he wasn’t expecting was the look of absolute shock and hurt and betrayal on Yondu’s face.

 

As Yondu looks at him with that betrayed, haunted look, Kraglin’s stomach drops and he realizes Yondu thinks Kraglin has stabbed him with his own boot knife. He stiffly swallows the lump in his throat and holds his hands up, showing the syringe and not the knife.

 

“It’s for your own good, I promise. I’m Kraglin, remember? I wouldn’t hurt you.”

 

“Kraglin,” Yondu murmurs, but it still sounds raw and broken. Peter sputtering and coughing somewhere in the background, but he and Yondu are too intent on each other to care.

 

Slowly, Kraglin raises his hand and waves it in front of his chest, motioning to himself.

 

“Kraglin,” He says gently. He points at Yondu and makes a firm, solid fist, and brings it close to his chest, holding it over his own heart. “Yondu,” Kraglin says, putting everything he’s wanted to say for the past five days, hell, the past five years, hell, the past fifteen years of quiet non-I-love-yous and implied but severely underspoken feelings, all because both of them are too raw and tough and afraid to say it.

 

“Yondu,” Kraglin repeats, and taps his fist against his chest.

 

“Kraglin,” Yondu croaks, and takes a wobbly step forward, then another. The wet gleam in his eyes is maybe more hopeful than hurt now, and he lurches forward. He looks at Kraglin like he’s the best loot he’s found yet and reaches for him, but goes too far and loses his balance, collapsing on top of the Hraxian in a boney blue puddle of Centaurian.

 

Kraglin rests an arm gently, ever so gently, across his shoulders. “I know, Cap’n. I know.” Slowly, a wave of snores rises from the captain, and Kraglin cranes his neck to make eye contact with Peter, who has finally come to terms with the fact he isn't dead.

 

“Be great if you went ahead and called someone to help carry us outta here, kid.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gesture stands for holding someone close to your heart. I thought it was sappy and sweet and got the point across without using those three little words that space pirates can't say.
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> We're close to the end now. Have you been having a good time? I don't think Kraglin has. Yondu, maybe. Do you think they've ever taken a job that was really just a poorly disguised vacation?
> 
> As always, deposit your brain thinkings below in the comment box.


	8. Chapter 8

In the end, once aboard the ship, Doc is able to get the pressure off of Yondu’s brain and do some shady neuroscience picked up in some Xandarian back alleys to get everything back to normal. Kraglin ends up with his ribs wrapped, his hands bandaged, his leg in a proper brace, and bits of shrapnel picked out of infected wounds on his leg and side. His fever goes down quickly with the miracle of modern medicine and a doctor with the bedside manner of a brooding bilgesnipe. He looks like he’s been frozen and thawed too many times, but Peter brings him a tin of hair gel from his supply, so at least he looks like a well groomed piece of crap.

 

Yondu’s got his back covered in salve and ointment and patches of nu-skin and is held together with stitches and staples where Doc had to go rooting around in his skull, but he always looks much better than Kraglin does anyways. It isn’t very surprising that even when they’re beat to crap, he looks like he was born for the style.

 

They both get a standard round of anti-toxins just in case something they ate or drank was poisonous, but Kraglin’s not too worried about that anymore. Not when they’re both safely stowed away on lumpy cots in the medbay.

 

Yondu’s arrow rests on his bedside table within easy reach, stashed right next to the boot knife. The man himself grumpily lays on his stomach in bed, keeping pressure off of his burned back. Their coats are draped over the ends of their beds, just  in case something goes wrong and they need to make a run for the bridge and cover their bare asses.

 

They’ve spent the past day not talking about what happened, but Kraglin can just tell that Yondu remembers from the way he looks all pleased when Doc says the binding on his leg probably kept half of his tibia from punching through the skin and is pleased when the Doc declares them “not that dehydrated or malnourished.” He’s also exceedingly grateful that Yondu doesn’t look betrayed or sad anymore and is glad to be back aboard the ship. Any conversation they have had is as washed-out and sterile as the metal walls around them.

 

Yondu might be acting like it was no big deal, but Kraglin knows there’s emotions there that made Yondu pick him up and keep him safe. He wants to talk about it, especially because it’s something they’ve never put into words or gestures before, and he doesn’t know if the emotion he saw on Yondu’s face before was real or just a product of the brain damage. He thinks he knows the answer, but he needs to be sure.

 

“You should see how Peter is showing off all the stitches he needed,” Kraglin starts slowly, rolling his head across his pillow to face Yondu.

 

“Kid can’t say I never gave him nothing.”

 

“Mm. That’s for sure. Gave us both heart attacks with how you was dropping in on us.”

 

Yondu shrugs. “Stop being a wimp then.”

 

“I should thank you though.” Kraglin pauses and looks around, makes sure no one is gonna hear the exchange that comes next. He can hear Doc swearing in the next room while he takes inventory or reads a book or does whatever it is he does, so he supposes this is the most privacy he’ll get. Taking a deep breath, he continues.

 

“You weren’t in your right mind, but you knew enough to take care of me.” And care about me, he thinks. “You fed me and braced my leg and put the distress call in a tree and everything. And I’m sorry I had to stab you in the end. That was probably rather rude of me after you took good care of me. So. Uh. Thanks.”

 

Yondu grunts and turns his head, looking away from Kraglin. “Yeah well, your sorry ass needed help. And I don’t know why you’re apologizing for getting us off that gross lump of trees and moss. Much rather be here. And besides, if you died I might have to make Quill into my first mate, and I think we both know how that would end.”

 

“Messily. And you would need another first mate almost immediately.”

 

Yondu nods seriously. “S’actly. And that is a lot of mess to clean up and work to go through when I can just keep you around instead.”

 

“And I know you don’t like talking about the sappy stuff. We’re Ravagers and we’re too tough to talk about emotions and feelings and we’re certainly too mean to feel anything except anger and greed, but ah, I guess I was thinking while we were down there. And um.”

 

Suddenly, Kraglin’s throat closes up, and he has no power to say the words. They’ve both thought them, they’ve both looked at each other with the meaning clear on their faces, and they both know. Definitely know. But they’ve never said it. And maybe they never will. Knowing is enough for both of them. Probably.

 

Kraglin just points at Yondu, then makes a fist and taps it against his chest, blush spreading from his cheekbones to his ears, and then his scalp. He hopes Yondu remembers that much, and he should, Doc said so, but they haven’t really talked about it yet.

 

Ruby eyes bore into his own, so much more guarded than they were just a few days ago, and infinitely harder to read. Yondu snorts and looks down and to the side, but quickly, almost so quickly Kraglin doesn’t see it, mirrors the gesture and taps his fist against the side of his chest. A very slight indigo blush blossoms its way onto Yondu’s skin and Kraglin smiles.

 

Yeah. This is more than enough emotion talk for the two of them. They know. They have for quite a long time. They remember.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is. The end of this misadventure. They've been together a long long time and while they both know the emotion is there, neither of them want to say it's there. They're much more content just knowing and never acknowledging. The true Ravager way.
> 
> Question of the Chapter:  
> Yondu still likes forests and jungles. Will Kraglin ever forgive nature for this adventure?  
> OR  
> Will they ever say those three little words out loud and to each other?  
> OR  
> Is Kraglin still upset at being pushed off a cliff?
> 
> Leave any thoughts in the comments section! I will read them and try to respond, perhaps even with nice gifs.


End file.
